My family first moved to Cayucos in 1988. For you young’uns, that was way back in the 20th century. I went to Cayucos Elementary School and made lifelong friends that I’m still close with today. Like most kids here back then, I moved on to Coast Union High School and graduated in 2001. I spent a few years figuring things out. I attended Cuesta College, worked as a local radio DJ, played in a handful of bands, fell in love with filmmaking, and eventually decided to make the big leap to the city, Pasadena, to be exact.
I’d visited Pasadena years before, and it reminded me a lot of SLO, a small city feel with a strong sense of community, just nestled inside the sprawl of Los Angeles. In 2009, I packed up and headed south to chase the dream of working in the entertainment industry. In 2013, I met an amazing woman who quickly became my best friend. That friendship turned into something more, and in 2014, we made it official. We were both chasing our dreams and somehow making them work. In 2015, we took the next step and moved in together. I said goodbye to my condo in Old Town Pasadena and hello to the quiet, suburban-like streets of Altadena.
At first, Altadena wasn’t quite my scene, but it grew on me fast. As much as Pasadena reminded me of SLO, Altadena reminded me of Los Osos—funky, artsy, full of community, and everyone was just … cool. The vibe was unreal. In 2019, I asked my best friend to be my wife. And in early 2020, we found out we were going to be parents. Of course, 2020 had other plans. The pandemic hit. Our pregnancy journey happened under the shadow of COVID-19, with FaceTime doctor visits, most of which I couldn’t attend, protests and riots in the streets, and a level of uncertainty that was hard to put into words. But in November 2020, our daughter was born. Nine pounds of absolute magic (my poor wife!). Life had changed for the better, and things seemed to be getting back to some sort of “normalcy.”
Then came the writers’ strike. Then more fires. Fires were always part of Southern California life, especially where we were, but we never really thought one would reach us. We lived far enough south on the mountain that it almost seemed silly to worry. But the smoke? That was a different story. It would get trapped against the San Gabriel foothills and just sit there.
During the pregnancy, we endured what we thought was one of the worst fires. We sealed up the house, covered the windows, and stayed indoors for days. I couldn’t see across our own yard.
The smoke was thick, suffocating. That’s when Cayucos started to become our escape, our “fresh air” vacation. Clean, fresh ocean breeze, familiar faces, and clear skies.
On Jan. 7, 2025, the Eaton Fire started. The winds were fierce. We felt it immediately—this one was different. We packed a few things and headed for Cayucos, just to get away from the smoke. Like we’d done a handful of times before. By the time we got to our Airbnb on Jan. 8, our house, along with the rest of our town, had burned to the ground.
There’s no way to prepare for that kind of loss. Losing your home is one thing. Losing your entire town, your friends, your neighbors, your daughter’s school, your coffee shop, anything that had a sense of familiarity, is another entirely. The despair filled every crevice of our being. But we were in Cayucos. The air was clean. The sun was shining. There was no smoke. There was no fire.
The day we got the news, the three of us took a walk down to the beach. My wife and I didn’t say much, just exchanged quiet, sad glances while our daughter played in the sand. On our walk back to our Airbnb, we were stopped by two locals asking how our day was going. My jaded Southern California instincts made me just nod and keep walking. But my wife stopped and started talking. Eventually, the topic came up, and she told them everything. Later that evening, when we got back from dinner in Morro Bay, two large bags were waiting on our doorstep. They were filled with clothes, toys, books, art supplies, and crafts for our daughter.
From strangers. We were floored. Even as I write this, I’m floored.
Over the last few months, it’s been a whirlwind of emotion, punctuated by moments like that, moments of kindness from people we didn’t know, who expected nothing in return. Yes, we’ve heard plenty of “You’re in our thoughts and prayers” (blah), but more importantly, we’ve felt people’s actions. People putting those thoughts and prayers into action.
And that’s Cayucos in a nutshell, people helping people. People looking you in the eye and genuinely caring about your answer.
We never planned to start over here. But I have to say, if you’re going to rebuild your life from the ground up, Cayucos is a pretty damn incredible place to do it. We miss Altadena deeply. That was our home. A home that was stuffed full of memories, both old and new. But the love and support from this town, my hometown, has been immeasurable. Watching my daughter play on the same beach I grew up on? Those are feelings that can’t exactly be expressed.
Sure, Cayucos has changed. Some of the houses are bigger, Skippers is now Hidden Kitchen (and it’s amazing), but the heart of this town is still the same. It’s still home. Whether it’s our forever home or just for now, it’s the place we needed, and the place that welcomed us with open arms.
So, thank you, Cayucos. Thank you for the early morning beach walks, the bonfires, the new friends, and the familiar faces. Thank you for giving my family the chance to begin again. I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank some of the people who make this town tick—the Fraziers, the Hamiltons, the Johnsons, the Joneses, Darci, Gale Force, the guy who helped me load packages in the rain, and the countless people who made us dinners and who continue to check in on us.
Thank you. Δ
David McAbee writes to New Times from Cayucos. Send a commentary, letter, or opinion piece for publication to letters@newtimesslo.com.
This article appears in 55 Fiction 2025.
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